Dreams
by cottonmouth
Summary: Sands dreams. Slight ElSands slash


Disclaimer: Not my characters, just my story

Most people only dream in black and white, and wake up later with foggy, half-remembered images remaining. Unfortunately this was never the case for the viewer of one particular dream. The macabre production that screened inside the head of ex CIA Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was always a regular occurrence in full Technicolor with accompanying sounds, smells and feels. What his (at the time) drug soaked brain couldn't recall was made up by his ever-active imagination filling in the blanks. All in all, it added up to a level of reality that could almost equal his waking hours.

The cold metal of the table, the dark room, the freakshow of people all blurred into existence as the dream began playing through. The ending was always the same, down to the tiniest detail, the events leading to the inevitable climax proceeding on an exact schedule. Nothing would ever be changed, and Sands could at least take some measure of comfort in the fact that if he had to have matinee performances of the Shittiest Day Of His Life replaying every night, at least he always knew the outcome, knew when he would wake. Except it was different this time, his traitorous mind apparently got bored with repeat showings and decided to throw something new in the mix.

It took Sands a second to reorient himself in this new nightmare, to figure out the change. He started as he realised that it wasn't him lying on the table. He was standing beyond Ajedrez, beyond Barillo and the Doctor, watching the scene play out as he knew it would, as it always did

"_You have only seen too much"_

The drill and the screams made him flinch and try to turn away. It was almost worse than the usual dream. He felt sick to his stomach watching Ajedrez standing there smiling as she silently observed his agony. He'd always known she was a sick bitch, she had to have been to get involved with the likes of him, but even he never got off on torture. Maybe that's where he went wrong, a part of his mind mused to itself.

Suddenly the dream changed in a swirl of colour that was way too dreamlike for this setting. He was standing before Barillo in the room, Ajedrez and the good doctor gone, holding something out. Sands looked down at the drill in his left hand, dripping blood and vitreous fluid from its tip and in his right… in his right were two eyeballs. Nausea rose in his nonexistent dream body. His hands went limp, the implement of pain falling to the floor in a clatter of metal against cold concrete, the eyeballs making a less audible splat of dead meat and rolling away from him. Backing away in horror, staring at the wet spot on the concrete where the eyes had hit, he held his shaking hands up in a gesture of denial, protesting against this new lie. Vaguely he realised in the back of his mind that after using the drill there was no way his eyeballs would have remained intact, but this was a dream, a dream in his mind no less, there was no safety in logic.

He hit the table behind him and froze, not wanting to turn and face himself, to see what he must look like now. At least in his waking mind he could pretend he still looked the same, that people would still find him attractive as they passed on the street. But no, this was another lie his dream mind would not let him keep as he felt himself slowly turning against his will. A sharp, selfish stab of relief hit him on seeing the person on the table. The shape was all wrong, the clothes were different, it wasn't his body! This momentary relief was jerked away immediately as he followed the form of the body upwards, his mind screaming in protest _nononono_

El lay there, bloody holes carved into his handsome face, which turned towards Sands as he stared, transfixed in his terror.

Waking with a sudden start, Sands threw himself into a sitting position on the bed of tonight's motel room, paid for courtesy of Sands' rescuer, travelling companion and the newest surprise guest star in the fucked up horror show Sands hosted in his head every night, El Mariachi. It made sense, in a twisted way, that his mind would throw El into the foreground, give him a starring role. He was just beginning to like the Mariachi's company, which differed from the 'relying on El to take care of every aspect of his life' relationship they started with.

He felt the new brand of revulsion his own mind inflicted hit him hard, throwing back the sweaty bedsheets he ran for the toilet as hot bile rose in his throat. Thankful that he did not encounter any obstacles in the unfamiliar room, he fell to his knees in front of the porcelain bowl, grasped the sides and threw up the contents of his stomach in heaving gasps. The sheer anguished pain and disgust he felt distracted him from his surroundings, so he jumped when a soft hand fell on his back and rubbed softly, the other pulling his now almost shoulder length hair out of his face. The light gauzy bandage he wore wrapped around his eyeholes at night had come loose in the restless writhing that accompanied sleep, and the hand gently pulled it off whilst smoothing back his hair, presumably to rescue it from sliding into the stream of sour metallic flavour soup he was currently choking out.

As the frantic revolt of his stomach subsided, Sands felt limp and weak, and would have pitched forwards had it not been for El's strong arms guiding him back to sit on the floor against the cool wall. The Mariachi got up, and Sands heard the taps of the sink being turned. El returned and began wiping the drool and vomit off of Sands chin, before using the damp cloth to cool his sweaty forehead and face. Sands sat silently allowing the Mariachi to take care of him, making no move to help. Distantly, he wondered why he let El help him, why he let El se him at his weakest and most vulnerable when no one else was ever allowed close. _Stockholm Syndrome, _a voice in his head piped up, _you don't have a choice and even if you did you wouldn't stop him 'cos you kinda like having him look after you._

Voices were pushed aside as a glass was pressed to Sands lip, and he took a few sips of water to wash away whatever remained of last nights dinner. He heard the glass being set down on the linoleum floor next to him.

"Are you ok?" The Mariachi enquired in a low voice. A number of really sharp, witty retorts, such as 'piss off' sprung to Sands mind, but were quickly silenced by the voices' return, suggesting that no he didn't really want El to piss off did he? On a matter of principle Sands would have argued that point, but the bone weary exhaustion was taking it's toll, so he conceded without a fight, numbly shaking his head slowly so as not to rattle his brain too much and wake up any more voices that may reside there.

"Can you stand?" El asked. Without answer, Sands slowly pushed himself off the floor, supported by El. Regaining his equilibrium, Sands shook off the comforting warmth of the Mariachi's arms, desperately wished he hadn't, and slowly felt his way back to the bedroom, feeling El's presence behind him, the jingle of the Mariachi pants showing that, like Sands, El was dressed to leave at a moments notice. Old habits die hard.

Climbing back into bed like an invalid, he hated himself for looking so weak, hated himself even more for wishing El would stay next to him to offer comfort in his world of black. El's finger raised his chin, and he felt the gauzy bandage being placed lightly over his empty eye sockets and wound around his head.

"Tight enough?" El questioned. Again Sands nodded his head twice. Laying down, he felt the bed shift as El sat down on the edge, the sudden touch of the Mariachi's hand stroking his still warm forehead soothing him.

After a few minutes Sands could feel El preparing to leave and return to his own bed. The hand left his forehead. The desperate fear of being left alone that followed his nightmare caught up with him and reflexively Sands reached out and caught it before El got up.

"Why don't you hate me?" The question left him before he could fully analyse it's meaning.

"What?" El's tone was coloured with confusion.

"The Day of the Dead, I used you and screwed you over, but you still helped me. Why?" Sands could feel El contemplating the question. His answer came abruptly.

"Because you are not the same person, You were changed on that day" The shadow of El's hand ghosted over Sands cheekbones and ruined eyes, not touching but still felt.

"And because you have been punished enough." The bedsprings crunched as El settled further on the bed, leaning back against the wall nest to Sands. His hand returned to its rhythmic stroking of Sands' forehead. Apparently the Mariachi was more than a little perceptive in discerning the real reason for Sands' questioning.

"Try and get some rest. If you dream, I will wake you." His touch chased away most of the nightmare's lingering fear. Sands felt both disquieted and reassured by the ease in which his body relaxed at the Mariachi's touch, but surprisingly no voices jumped in to offer explanation, which was something to be examined in itself, his mind never missed an opportunity to add its own comments. But fatigue was fast washing over him, and he slid into sleep with the gentle brush of El's fingers kissing him goodnight.


End file.
